


Fade Away

by Mohini



Series: Ghosts [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 21:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15615450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: She wears the armor so well, it's easy to forget what lies beneath.





	Fade Away

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr@ Mohini-Musing

It’s three in the morning when he wakes to Mick Jagger screaming the Stones’ Gimme Shelter from his phone. He rolls over and swipes the screen to answer. There’s a reason he set her ring tone to an anthem of war. Tasha doesn’t call unless the world is about to end. 

“Tash?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Is this James?” an unfamiliar voice asks. 

He’s wide awake now. Someone else has Tasha’s phone. Nothing good is going to come of this. 

“I am. And you are?” 

“Maria. Please tell me you’re not halfway across the country or something. She’s seriously fucked up on something and all I can get out of her is that she needs you.”

“Where are you?” He asks, dressing quickly and pulling on boots with the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. He slips the gel sleeve over his bicep and grabs his prosthesis from the charging dock, clicking it firmly into place. 

“We’ll be at her apartment in five or so. I’ll be in a Fiat.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Steve is sitting up by now, looking at Bucky with eyebrows raised in question. 

“Something’s up with Tasha. Go back to sleep. I’ll check in with you later,” he tells him, not waiting for a response before heading out. He grabs the keys to Steve’s car. If Tasha’s fucked up enough for someone else to be calling him there is no way she’s going to be safe to put on his bike if he needs to move her.

The drive takes only a few minutes. It’s long enough for him to come up with roughly a thousand scenarios. Each one is a little worse than the last. 

He’s cooked up enough horrible ideas that finding Tasha passed out cold in the passenger seat of a blue Fiat Spider is a relief. The girl who called him, Maria, is standing beside the car with an expression that manages to be simultaneously frightened and pissed. 

“James, I presume?” she asks when he steps out of Steve’s beat up little Civic. 

“That’s me. What happened?”

“Damn good question. She’s out of her fucking mind. Went batshit crazy on one of the Kappa brothers for god only knows what reason. Had him laid out on the floor before anyone could get her away from him. Then she took off running like the devil was on her ass. An hour later she calls me for a ride like nothing happened. Picked her up and she’s ranting that she needs me to call you for her and she passed out before we pulled in the lot. I don’t know what she took, but whatever it is, it’s kicking her ass.”

It’s all James can do to not point out that it sounds more like it kicked some frat bro’s ass. He manages to bite his tongue, though. Judging from the Greek letters adorning the back of the Fiat, Maria won’t take that too well. Instead he opens the door of the car and pulls Tasha up like a baby, whispering to her when she whines that it’s just Jamie. She mumbles some sort of heavily slurred endearment and nuzzles him like a puppy. He’s grateful that the top of the little convertible is down, since getting a semiconscious Tasha out of it otherwise would have been seven kinds of hell. 

He knows the door code for the apartment building and punches it in, calling over his shoulder to Maria that he appreciates her getting his sister home for him. He doesn’t stick around to wait for a response. Tasha’s ground floor apartment has never been more of a wonderful idea than right now, because he’s not sure how far he can actually maneuver her like this. No matter how advanced the myoelectric prosthesis he wears is, it isn’t his original arm and he can’t carry her around like a baby the way he did when they were kids. The code lock on her door is also a beautiful thing at the moment. He knows it’s probably to cut back on kicked in doors when drunken college kids lock themselves out, but damn is it nice for getting in without having to rummage in Tasha’s pockets for a key. 

He deposits Tasha on her couch and goes in search of supplies. She’s breathing steadily and her pulse is fine so he’s at least not worried she’s on the edge of an overdose. He saw enough of her in that condition when they were teenagers, thank you very much. Her kitchen yields a couple bottles of water and not much else. Judging by the ease with which he held her weight, she’s not big on the eating lately. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s tried to physically disappear. He manages to hunt down a mop bucket for the inevitable. He’s not a big fan of spending the night on the bathroom floor and since it’s clear that Tasha’s in no state to get to the toilet on her own he might as well be somewhere comfortable while he keeps her from offing herself. 

“James?” she calls out as he comes out of the bathroom with a couple of towels to cover the couch and a washcloth dampened at the tap. He doubts that Tasha’s stomach has gotten any more fond of her vices since they were kids. 

“Hey there,” he tells her, coaxing her to sit up enough for him to put one towel over the throw pillow she’s laying on. She slumps against his shoulder instead of going back to the pillow. James wonders if he maybe should have wrapped himself in the towel instead. She’s worryingly pale.

“You sober enough to talk to me?” he asks her.

“No,” she grumbles, and he slings his flesh arm around her back to hold her. She’s breathing in shallow gasps, which either means she’s going to have a meltdown or start puking. Either way, she’s clinging to him like her life depends on not letting go. He doesn’t want to frighten her if she’s too out of it to remember that one of them is made of metal. 

“Tell me if you’re going to be sick at least,” he coaxes and she nods against him. 

“M’okay for now,” she slurs, and her voice is too high, too tight. There is dampness soaking into his shirt a moment later as she begins to cry. 

He doesn’t know what to say to her, how to comfort her, so he just holds her. She brings her knees up to her chest and curls fully against him, seeming to be trying to get as much of her in contact with his body as possible. He reaches across her and pulls her fully into his lap, both arms wrapped tight around her while she bawls. Her body is impossibly warm and that coupled with the emotional outburst from a girl he knows good and well would rather walk across hot coals gives him an educated guess as to what she’s on. 

“You rolling, baby girl?” he asks her when she’s settling down, the sobs fading to quiet sniffles.

“Mmhmm,” she murmurs. “Bad, though. S’bad.”

“Before or after you got spooked?”

“Yeah.”

“You coming down yet?”

“Nah.”

“So, drunk, rolling, anything else?”

“Fuck’d up,” she tells him. 

“Not arguing with you there. How, exactly though?”

“Fucking failure, ev’thing’s gone to hell. M’not, can’t, dammit Jamie,” she grumbles, apparently realizing that she’s let truth fall from vodka loosened lips. 

He strokes the tips of his fingers down one of her too slim arms, hoping that the heightened touch sensitivity from the drugs will provide enough distraction. Getting her to talk is good, probably, maybe, but getting her to talk when she isn’t in control of her words is nothing short of manipulative. He’s well aware that Tasha doesn’t trust many people and there is no way he’s risking losing her trust in him. 

She makes a sound halfway between a growl and a purr before wrapping slim fingers around a section of his shirt and holding on. “Feels good,” she murmurs. 

He keeps petting her, soft touches to keep her grounded without overloading her. James is no stranger to being out of his mind and the last thing Tasha needs right now is to focus on anything complicated. Her breath is soft and warm against his neck and she drifts in and out of consciousness for a long while. 

It’s nearing dawn when she finally starts coming down properly. James shifts them until he’s able to mostly lie down with her held close since trying to pry her from him results in whimpers and wide, shocky eyes staring at him full of tears. “Shhh, Tasha, I’ve got you,” he assures her and she settles back down. He sleeps in a light and almost battle ready half consciousness that he both wishes he never learned and is immensely grateful for. 

Full morning finds him supporting a disoriented and very hungover Tasha while she hugs the mop bucket to her chest and chokes up the reminders of her overindulgence. He rubs her shoulders and offers reassurances that it will pass. She’s well past the vulnerable softness from the previous evening and mostly curses her own idiocy and growls about hating this part. 

“Fuck,” she groans as she releases her hold on the bucket and flops onto the still towel covered throw pillow. Her face is damp with sweat and her entire body is trembling faintly. James goes to rinse out the bucket yet again and returns to find her awake and clearly miserable. 

“Tell me what to do for you?” he asks her.

“Shoot me.”

“What are the other options?” he presses, sitting on the end of the couch and pulling one of her feet into his lap to press his thumb into the arch and upwards toward her toes. 

“You should know you just fucked yourself. I’m never letting you leave now,” she tells him, stretching out and plopping her other foot into his lap. 

He shakes his head and smiles at her, continuing to massage her feet as she goes progressively less tense. When she’s been very still for a good bit of time, he slips out from under her legs and drapes a blanket over her sleeping form. She looks so young in sleep. He wants to be able to take away the ugly parts of her psyche, to be able to soothe the hurts away so that she can be a regular college kid. It’s not fair that she can’t make stupid choices and get fucked up without paying for it in ways that make even a godawful hangover seem easy by comparison. 

He checks his phone, sends a message to Steve letting him know that Tasha’s okay but he’s going to stay with her for the day. Then he settles into a cheap armchair near the couch and grabs the nearest book on the shelf to occupy himself while he keeps watch over his sleeping not exactly sister. He opens it to the first section. It’s _Ender’s Shadow _, a companion piece to Orson Scott Card’s _Ender’s Game _focusing on the orphan Bean. Glancing over at Tasha when she makes a soft sound in her sleep, the irony of the choice of reading material isn’t lost on him.____


End file.
